Long Live the Dead (6 page)

“No,” Bill said. “He didn’t.”

“What?”

“I didn’t!” Valliers whined. “I don’t know anything about it!”

“All he did,” Bill shrugged, “was get rid of the body.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The dead body.”

“He says,” Jay O’Brien murmured, lifting both hands palms upward, “he don’t know anything about it.”

“If you know so much, wise guy,” Macy rasped, “maybe you know all the rest of it.”

“Sure.”

“Yeah? Well, what?”

“Let him tell it,” Bill shrugged. He spat out a chewed match-end and nodded to Valliers. “Better tell ’em about it. Begin where the phone rang.”

Valliers pressed both fists to his forehead and rocked from side to side. He said thickly: “I tell you I don’t know anything about it!”

“Don’t be a sap.”

“I don’t
know
, I tell you! I had nothing to do with it! I—”

“All right,” Bill shrugged. “All right. It’s not my funeral. Listen, you guys. He was painting the girl’s picture, see? And the phone rang. The phone’s in the den at the other end of the hall. There’s no phone in the studio. Yeah, I been snoopin’. The phone rang, and this guy hustled out of the studio to answer it. He left the door open. Who was on the phone, Valliers?”

“I don’t know anything about it!”

“Okey. You will later.” Bill tipped his chair against the wall and put his hands in his pockets. “While this guy was talking on the phone, he heard a yell from the studio. He charged down the hall again and found the girl sprawled out on the stand, stabbed. You wouldn’t call me a liar, Valliers?”

Valliers sobbed: “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I—” Then he put his face in his cupped hands and stopped rocking back and forth. He said almost inaudibly: “It’s true. I—I admit it.”

“Who was on the phone?”

“No one. No one answered it. Then I heard a scream and I ran back to the studio and—But she was dead when I got there! I didn’t do it!”

“If you didn’t do it,” Macy growled, “why all the fancy lyin’?”

“I—I was frightened.”

“Been in a tough spot with women before, haven’t you?” Bill said quietly.

Valliers nodded, sobbing.

“Figured it looked bad for you, so you got rid of the body, hey?”

Valliers nodded again.

“All right, mister,” Bill shrugged. “Who killed her?”

“I don’t know! I tell you I don’t know!”

“That straight?”

“It’s the truth. It’s the God’s honest truth. She—she was dead when I found her.”

“Okey,” Bill said. “Better let him go, Macy.”

“The hell I will.”

“Don’t be a sap. He admits he didn’t do it.”

“Yeah? Well, I got to be shown.”

“Okey,” Bill said. He got up and strolled to the door. “While you’re doing the Missouri, a guy by the name of Edwin Krauss is giving you the horse laugh. And don’t forget that phone call. When a phone rings, flatfoot, it means somebody dropped a nickel in a slot somewhere.”

M
alone of the
Times-Herald
was lapping thumb and forefinger over the pages of a city directory when Bill strolled in. He looked up, grunted, and lapped some more. Bill pulled up a chair and said gently: “Listen, scribe. Who’s working on Rose Veda?”

“Marshall and young Meade,” Malone said. “Yez, zir, mizter.”

“I see you’ve been snooping around,” Bill grinned. “How much did O’Brien spill?”

“Enough for this.” Malone pushed a pile of typewritten sheets; much penciled, across the desk. “Why? Got any more?”

Bill read the sheets slowly, scowled, squared them together again, tossed them aside. He took a cigarette from an open box of flat fifties. He said casually: “What do you know about Valliers?”

“Plenty,” Malone said. “He’s news.”

“His women?”

“His women do things to our circulation, mister.” Malone shrugged. “We keep a standing list. Want a look?”

“It might help.”

Malone pawed through the bottom drawer of the desk, found a worn sheet of copy paper, glanced at it and handed it over. Bill studied it, eyes narrowed.

“Want to do me a favor, Malone?”

“What?”

“Get some nice black type and a fancy border and box some hot syllables on page one of tonight’s paper. Something like this: ‘Police mum on list of suspects. Refuse to name person they believe guilty of Veda killing until positive proof is obtained. Watching every move of those under suspicion.’ Got it? And throw in some hooey about a knife. ‘Police seeking murder knife. Will comb all possible hiding places in search of weapon which may prove killer’s guilt. Believe they have definite clue as to knife’s whereabouts.’ Okey?”

“You’d make a hell of a newspaperman,” Malone grinned.

“Yeah, I know, I know. But I got good ideas, mister. Do that for me, will you?”

“On the level?”

“On the level,” Bill said. “Print that and you’ll have the rest of it by this time tomorrow.”

“Okey,” Malone nodded. “Anything to oblige.”

Bill walked from the
Times-Herald
building back to headquarters, stopping in
Peroni’s
for fish-cakes and beans. He found Jay O’Brien scowling over a letter.

“Get a load of this,” O’Brien said.

He shoved the letter across the desk and Bill picked it up. The writing was feminine, in purple ink on gray paper. It said:

Dearest Ed:

You won’t have to worry much longer, I’m sure, and I suppose we’ll both be happier when I’m through working for Valliers. He got fresh today as usual while I was posing for him. He tried to maul me and of course I told him where to get off. I’ve told him the same thing before and he just laughed, but today he got real sore and told me if I couldn’t be nice he’d find a way to make me. I guess he’s always had his own way with girls who worked with him before, because he got awfully nasty. I guess I won’t be working much longer, but maybe it’s all for the best. I was real scared of him today. Gee, Ed, I’ll be glad when we can get married. I’m so sick of working for men like him. Love me, Ed? Loads? I hope so because I’ll always love you.

Rose.

“Krauss brought that in half an hour ago,” O’Brien scowled. “He was nervous as a rabbit and had the shakes. Said she wrote it three days ago. Said he thought we ought to have it because it might throw some light on the case.”

“He’s not so dumb,” Bill said. “Looks bad for Valliers.” “Yeah? Where’s Macy?” “Out feeding his face.” “Valliers in the back room still?” “Nope. I let him go and put Kennedy on his tail.” “When Macy shows up,” Bill said, “give him this letter

and send him over to the girl’s boarding-house. Send some guy with him that knows handwriting. There’s a scrapbook in the bureau drawer with writing in it. Her writing. Tell Macy to check up.”

“You think Krauss wrote this letter himself?” “I think Krauss is a wise guy.” “Yeah? Well, why send Macy? You on a vacation?” “I got a date,” Bill said.

I
t was three-forty-five when Bill climbed out of a cab and walked up the street towards Jules Valliers’ house. On the opposite sidewalk a short, thickset man leaned against a brick wall between a neighborhood grocery and a delicatessen store. Bill strolled over, nodded, and said: “’Lo, Kennedy.” “Greetings,” Kennedy growled. “Gimme a cigarette. If there’s a lousy job around, I get it every time.”

“Valliers home?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go,” Bill said.

He crossed the street again, climbed stone steps, and pushed the button above the brass name plate. Valliers’ good-looking housekeeper, Katherine Mitchell, opened the door.

Bill said: “Good day. Valliers in?” The girl nodded and stepped aside. Bill and Kennedy walked in and waited. A moment later Valliers, in lavender dressing-gown and leather slippers, descended the stairs and stood staring. “You want me?” he said slowly.

“Want to look around,” Bill shrugged. “Kennedy here has an idea the evidence is still in the house.”

“The evidence?”

“The knife.”

Valliers said: “Oh,” and looked at Kennedy helplessly. “If there is anything I can do, I hope you won’t hesitate to—But I’m afraid I’m not much help.” He summoned a weak smile. “The whole affair has upset me?”

“I’ll get along all right,” Kennedy said.

“Then if you won’t need me, I believe I’ll—”

“Yeah. Okey.”

Valliers walked upstairs again, holding the banister. Katherine Mitchell said calmly: “You prefer to be alone, gentlemen?” “Talk to you later,” Bill nodded. She said: “Certainly,” and paced down the hall without

looking back.

Bill glanced at his watch. He said to Kennedy: “Listen. I gotta scram. All you’re supposed to do is mope around dumb like and keep an eye on Valliers and the girl. Especially the girl. You’ll get wise when you see the papers.”

“Give me the low-down,” Kennedy grumbled. “What am I, anyway?”

“Some other time, mister. Some other time.”

“Say, listen—”

“Keep an eye on the girl,” Bill said, and closed the door behind him.

D
own the street a newsboy was hiking across front lawns, tossing papers on verandas. Bill went towards him. “What one does Valliers take, Bud?” he asked the boy. “The
Globe
,” the boy said.

Bill fumbled in his pocket and slapped a half dollar into the boy’s hand. “Here. Throw a
Times-Herald
on his porch, too. And give me one.”

The boy gaped and said: “Sure. Thanks, mister.”

“Been over by Fern’s Pet Shop yet?”

“That ain’t on my route.”

Bill snatched the paper, looked both ways for a cab, swore under his breath, and ran down the sidewalk. Five minutes later, at the corner of Matthew Fern’s street, he saw more newsboys climbing down from a truck and catching bundles of papers that a man heaved out to them. He exhaled slowly and stopped to light a cigarette. Then he grinned. Farther down the street a wide shouldered man with a derby was waddling along on big feet. The man was Macy.

Bill strolled towards Fern’s Pet Shop, ambled past, and glanced inside. Fern was talking to a customer. Edwin Krauss was on hands and knees among an assortment of wire cages. Bill strolled past again and casually tossed his
Times-Herald
on the sidewalk, in the doorway. A moment later the door opened, the customer came out, and Matthew Fern picked up the paper.

The shop was midway between the ends of a one-story block. Bill ran to one end of the block, plunged down an alley, strode along a cement walk at the rear. The back door of the shop was locked; so was the rear window. Bill hauled out a clasp-knife, finger-nailed the blade open, poked the point into the door-lock, and slapped the heel of the knife sharply with his palm. He opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door quietly.

The room was dark; the door leading into the shop was closed. Bill tiptoed past a mound of empty boxes, squatted with one eye to the keyhole, and saw Matthew Fern standing near the counter, staring nearsightedly at a spread newspaper. Krauss was wiping birdcages with a white rag.

Fern laid his newspaper down and walked along behind the counter. The front door opened, and he stopped. Macy came in. Macy and Fern stared at each other, and Fern took a step backward. Macy said: “Hello, Fern,” put one hand in his coat pocket, strode to Krauss, and said: “You’re wanted, Krauss. You’re comin’ with me.”

“What for?” Krauss said, staring.

“Never mind that. Come on.”

Krauss said in a shrill voice: “But I haven’t done anything! I—”

“Come on.”

Krauss continued to stare, then mumbled: “All right. I’ll—come.” Without looking at Fern he walked slowly behind the counter, took his hat from underneath, and paced stiffly to the door. Macy strode out behind him.

Fern peered at the door. He took the newspaper, unfolded it, and bent over it again, fingering his cheek. He looked at the door again, frowning, then paced quickly to the rear of the shop.

Bill flattened against the wall just in time. The door creaked open. Fern entered, pushed the door shut quickly, stood blinking in the semi-dark. He began to mutter to himself, then groped nervously along the rows of shelves. In the far corner he pushed aside some empty cardboard cartons and tin cans, reached his whole arm behind them, and stepped back, holding a roll of newspaper. He pawed the newspaper apart, took a knife out of it, and stared at the knife intently, still muttering. He jerked a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the hilt and blade of the knife carefully, and rewrapped the knife in the crumpled newspaper. Reaching up, he moved the empty cartons back into place. Again muttering, he thrust the newspaper into his pocket and started towards the door which led to the back alley.

“Thanks, Fern,” Bill said. “You’re a big help.”

Fern spun around and stood rigid, and Bill paced quietly into the open. Fern took a step backward, stopped, and stood rigid again, eyes wide, mouth twisted. His fingers clawed the newspaper in his pocket.

“I’ll take that,” Bill said. “Then we’ll go for a walk, mister. A long walk. Your own fault. You shouldn’t believe all you read in the papers.”

Fern said: “What are you talking about? What are you doing here?”

“I’ll take the knife, Fern.”

“Knife? What knife?”

“This one, wise guy.” Bill stepped closer and reached for the newspaper. Methodically he stuffed it into his own pocket. “Let’s go, Fern.”

Fern put his hand out timidly and said: “Listen. Why do you come here? What have I done? What—” Then he leaped. Breath exploded from his mouth. His head rammed Bill’s jaw and his fist made a loud crunching sound against Bill’s face. Bill stumbled back, gasping, turned on one toe and tripped into a cairn of piled-up boxes. Fern struck again blindly, and struck a third time, snarling viciously.

Bill groped up. Fern pushed him back with both hands and kicked him. The mound of boxes toppled, smothering Bill’s oath. Fern whirled and ran.

Dazed, Bill rose on one knee and elbowed himself free. He stood up, swaying. He said: “Well, I’m damned,” and limped slowly to the rear door. He stood there, scowling, and said: “Of all the fat-head fools.”

He limped back again, entered the store, and looked for a phone. There was one on a shelf behind the counter. He lifted the receiver, dialed a number, and said a moment later: “Listen, Jay. I just had a complete massage, from a guy named Matthew Fern. Yeah, the same Matthew Fern. He got away. Smacked me down and took the first train. Yeah. Send a couple of bloodhounds after him and pass the good word along.”